


Perception

by smolder



Series: Connections [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolder/pseuds/smolder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For this is a classical pureblood “once upon a time”; a story of surrender to heavy-handed heritage. Where there was never any happy ending, only a trailing off. Only a shaky, uncertain, yearning that gave way to an eventual deadening inside."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter one: passive

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N: This story is connected to "One Moment At A Time" and "Blink" although it is not strictly necessary for you to have read those first.  
> A/N 2: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

She had long been fascinated by the power of the written word. How something so easily fallible (meaning so quickly changed by a single letter, the placement of punctuation) could change someone's life so drastically.

The contract in her hand did little to alter that perception.

She has always felt her life was a tale with an unreliable narrator. It made so much more sense that way – was so much easier to detach herself and stay passive throughout all the horrors that had gone on around her that she had been powerless to stop ( _there was just nothing she could have done, really. So much screaming going on downstairs but if she had fought against her parents and tried to save any of the Muggles, showed any sign of rebellion at all really with the way this society is set up, then the same or worse would have befallen her. She told herself this all the time as she read the same line of her favorite book – held in a white knuckled grip - over and over, never taking it in. Sometimes it helped. Usually, well usually, it didn’t._ ).

But this, it was difficult to stay passive for this.

With her parent’s hard expectant eyes on her (and that familiar hollow floating feeling of utter calm that many had often mistaken for grace in her but she knew all too well by now was simply resignation) Astoria signed.

(It wasn’t signing her life away - Astoria always found that phrase melodramatic and slightly silly to begin with. And anyway, her life has felt out of her control _long_ before this.)

The very next day she was wed.

And it all happened so quickly ( _and she is aware of what that says – the slight on her, her family. That the Malfoys might have fallen in the public eye but they could still be choosy and the Greengrass hadn’t been their top pick – especially her, the second daughter. The one that was slightly off; the only question is in which typical pureblood way would it manifest itself in the long run – easily controlled placid eccentricity or wild violent mood swings. The fact that they actually sent a marriage contract (the slightest proper amount of time after she graduated – but still) said that they were banking on the former._ ) that she never gave Draco much thought until the long day was over and he was shutting the bedroom door. Then she actually had the idea come into her head for the first time – this, this was my husband now.

It was absolutely stupid of her not to have considered it earlier (say, during the marriage ceremony when the ring was being placed on her finger) but she had kept herself so neatly blank for all of that - a separate box of memories that she wasn’t experiencing _then_ but perhaps would unpack later when she felt ready. When she felt more solid.

Seventeen, freshly married, and hearing the door close to the room she now shared (to the house she now was technically the Lady of) and staring into the sharp silver eyes of a man she has only ever met a handful of times outside of school and is now her husband……

……Astoria has never felt _more_ solid, _more_ real. And it _isn’t_ a good feeling. This alertness isn’t bringing with it the sense of courage that she had hoped for. She feels no more ready to face her life now under his gaze then she had under that of her parents’.

So, she retreats back to the calm, back to the blankness she had been holding steady and becomes the picture perfect pureblood wife. It is a comfortable mask – only Narcissa seems to see through it, recognize it for what it is (and Astoria has to wonder if it was her fellow Lady Malfoy who did the choosing of future daughter-in-laws, who was able to recognize a kindred. For better or ill.).

And she is able to keep it up without slipping again…..until Scorpius.

There is true unadulterated joy surrounding her son’s birth. The child’s grandparents on both sides are almost giddy - smiling proudly in ways she has not seen in many years…and never in such innocent circumstances. Her blankness is not recognized as out of the ordinary (by now it is the main known facet of her personality by everyone but her sister (who has watched her with increasing worry for years)) but this time instead of covering emotion it is simply shock.

Because Astoria might have been able to keep up this life of waking up each and every day in a cold hard building (too large and impersonal to her to be referred to as a house, let alone a _home_ ) and simply _being_ forever if it was only her. But now it isn’t only her anymore. And she has a responsibility to this child.

A responsibility to make sure he didn’t turn out like her.

With parents that don’t love each other – were jammed together through a highly political arrangement that was good financially and kept the bloodline pure. Two people that had very little real interest in each other, really. A father filled with confusion and guilt over his family’s part in a War and his own lingering prejudices that had been taught to him for so long. And a mother that hates her world, hates her _life_ , so much that she instead chooses to cognitively disengage from it on daily basis.

She doesn’t want that for her tiny boy (whom she already fears has inherited her weaknesses along with her chestnut hair instead of the sharp striking Malfoy blonde). Astoria has no illusions that she will be the perfect mother, that she even _can_ – she is far too… _off_ for that. But she does love him - and she knows that Draco does too. And perhaps, perhaps she can stop herself -stop _them_ from making the exact same mistakes their parents did.

 _(When it comes to child-raising that is. She is pretty certain that they are both relatively safe from repeating the mistakes of their parents when it comes to being a part of racial cleansing.)_

But Astoria knows she needs a plan. It is good to have made a decision, good to have something she cares about the well being of now other than Daphne who cried last time she saw her. _(Feeling guilty, so guilty, for getting to live her own life since their parents were getting what they wanted out of her instead)_ but it all means nothing – absolutely nothing – if she can’t back it up. If she can’t actually _do_ anything about it.

She is used to being powerless. But this time that _isn’t_ an option (she can’t let it be) and maybe, if she is careful (steady and alert), she can get them all out of this – through this – whole.


	2. chapter two: safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N 2: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

Ironically, it is through her mother-in-law that she finally finds that opening. Over breakfast one morning she suggests that Scorpius start going to Luna Lovegood’s daycare (looks are exchanged between the other three at the table at this name) but Astoria nods her head placidly. Because she quickly learned that when Narcissa said something, despite the tone, it never feels quite like she is just lightly advising you of her opinion on the subject – there is always a command implicit. And although she is now starting to engage with her world for the first time since she initially did in her childhood and learned the dangers inherent in doing so and taught herself how to retreat inside her head, Astoria also is keenly aware that she must pick her battles and there is no reason to fight this particular “suggestion”.

The problem arises in that she doesn’t want to _leave_.

She has no problem taking Scorpius to Luna Lovegood’s place (there is no bad blood between her and the woman. She only truly knows her as the girl who was one grade up from her) but she does not want to go anywhere without him. Doesn’t actually know _where_ she is supposed to go now.

Luna welcomes her to stay in the kitchen (although no other parents do) and starts chatting with her while she keeps a steady eye on the children during “Quiet Time.” The woman’s peculiar mixture of warmth and bizarre cut through her attempts to keep everything at the appropriate level of polite small talk she is used to.

….it is strange to have a friend.

It isn’t until Luna catches her absentmindedly telling Scorpius stories as she buttons up his coat before they leave one day (little things she makes up because she loves the way it has consistently made him smile at her since he was an infant) and asks if she has ever tried her hand at writing that they become even closer.

The other woman was constantly trying to set her up with something to do while she was busy teaching the children each day. But this – this was truly not an easy thing to try. The next day though, Luna provides her with the paper and quill and shoos her off to the kitchen table before she starts her class.

So, she writes. It is odd to her - the quill shaky and uncertain in her hand and she glances up at Luna constantly the first half hour silently asking for permission. Can she do this? Is she really allowed to write what she wants and no one will find it and use it against her. Are these thoughts of hers truly _safe_ outside of her head? (A place where she never felt entirely safe to articulate herself either. Occlumency was something everyone feared. Blankness has always been her haven.)

But Luna barely glances at her (she is working after all), continuing to lead the group of children in song (a sad tune about a little boy and a dragon who lived by the sea) and she takes comfort in the site. Her chestnut haired, silver eyed, pale boy not yet old enough to sing along but smiling happily and amusing himself by laughing and clapping at odd times causing the other children to giggle.

Astoria closes her eyes trying to remember the last time she felt this way. Warmed and at peace, safe and hopeful. Was she _ever_? It has always been hard for her to feel these things. Perhaps….

 _….Christmas. She was seven. It had been years since Voldemort and her parents had actually settled into a fairly normal life by pureblood standards and there was still two years until Daphne went away to school – four for her._

 _It was a truly childish tradition but they had kept it up until…..until she left the house (until she was wed). Daphne and she crawled into her bed and all cuddled up, they opened the book and had it read to them._

 _It had been a gift one year. An uncharacteristically thoughtful gift from her father that had hit the mark dead on when it came to his daughters’ likes. A book charmed to read aloud fairy tales._

 _Curled up with her sister under the fluffy pale blue comforter that reminded her of a clear summer sky, the dark room illuminated by only a single candle in its candelabra on the wall slowly wearing down until it was only a guttering light flickering feebly and throwing up shadows. The deep calm voice of the narrator telling them stories that always began with a, “Once upon a time,” and ended with her drifting off to sleep._

 _Feeling safe, warm, hopeful, and at peace with herself._

Slowly opening her eyes, she writes……

……about her sister.

Starting with a time when it was neither simple nor safe, although it should have been both – although they had often wished it was both - she writes a story about a strong girl who valiantly tried to protect her younger sister. A task that wasn’t easy.

A task that wasn’t truly possible in the world they lived in. A place where survival, not protection, was all that one could hope for. Where keeping your head down and living through it if you didn’t want to be the next one to die was a way of life for almost everyone for about a year. And prior to that was just tense tense prelude.

She writes about that girl’s journey. Learning to trust herself after the War – and how that ultimately led to a job as an Auror. How she found fulfillment there. Able to use her magic, this gift of her blood, of her heritage, but in a good way. In a way that _protected_ others.

Astoria doesn’t realize how late it is until she is startled by a man she doesn’t know setting a mug of tea beside her.

“Sorry,” he sat across from her with his own mug and yawned widely. “Made some chamomile,” he gestured at her untouched cup.

She blinked at him looked out the window at the setting sun and back at her pages and pages of writing. “How long….,”

The man made a faintly amused sound and she looked up again. “You were in the zone,” he said simply.

Sudden panic came over and instantly the familiar mask of calm dropped down (sliding on efficiently but not fitting quite as seamlessly anymore). She saw the way her companion straightened in his chair and looked at her in confusion at her abrupt change in demeanor but she couldn’t help it.

“Where is my son?” she asked as if the answer held no meaning to her, as if she was asking about the weather.

He studied her for a moment longer before answering, “He was taking a nap but I think he woke up so Luna was reading to him.”

Astoria inclined her head and smiled, cold and gracious, as she stood, “Thank you”.

He touched her arm as she started to walk by. “Hey. It’s safe here,” he said before handing her the papers she had forgotten between her panic and shutting down.

Then he went back to his tea.

She looked at her own writing for a long moment. The words he had spoken, that feeling that had propelled her to write earlier, was imprinted deep within her brain. She couldn’t ignore that – she didn’t want to.

But right now she had to go find her son.


	3. chapter three: hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.  
> A/N 2: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

Draco was waiting for her – pacing tensly back and forth by the fire when she Apparated back to the Manor.

“Where were you?” he asked spinning towards her instantly. “Did something happen to Scorpius? Is he alright?”

“Shhhh,” she responded smiling blandly back at him and nodding down at the sleeping child in her arms.

Seeing him, Draco visibly relaxed and followed her up the stairs as she carried their child to his room and placed him in his crib. They both stood and gazed at him – his tiny breaths, the way he would scrunch up his nose and kick at the blanket - for several long moments before going back downstairs.

“Where were you? Why were you back so late?” Draco asks again.

“I was at Luna’s. I lost track of time,” she answers honestly.

“What were you doing?” he asks her and detachedly Astoria notes she can see his anger building again.

“I was writing,” she pulls the sheets out of her bag. More for proof for herself than for him. It is still hard for her to believe that this happened, that she did this today.

He seems a bit taken aback by her actions and tentatively he reaches to take the pages from her outstretched hand. Moving slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull them away from him if she had wanted to – if this was a purely private thing.

But she didn’t – she let him take them. And standing in front of her he read the first real thing she had written down (that wasn’t an assignment for school). This biography of her sister that was simultaneously a highly personal accounting of her early life as well. Something they had never discussed….but then again, they truly talked about very few things.

He read (glancing up at her quickly when he first started but then quickly continuing). And she wished, she truly truly wished that she felt something in this moment. It was times such as these that she only wonders what she is supposed to be feeling. Happy? Excited? Tense? _Before_ it was a necessity, but she has gotten too good at pulling in and now it is difficult for that not to be her default.

So Astoria was simply blank as she patiently waited.

Draco finishes, looking up at her and blinking in surprise. “This – It’s good. Really good, Astoria. I didn’t know you wrote.”

“I don’t. This is the first time I have,” she tells him.

“Really?” he asks but then understanding falls over his face. The inherent lack of safety in even keeping a diary in the sort of household where loyalty is paramount but always always questioned. “Ah.”

“What are you going to do with it?” he asks next.

“Do?” Astoria responds stupidly, not understanding what he is asking.

“Are you just going to show your sister or write biographies of more people or publish a…,” Draco starts to list.

“Publish,” she interrupts him uncharacteristically, her mind working – the plan that had only been lying still, daring to break ground in her mind, daring to grow and blossom. “I could….”

“I could interview people. Give them a voice. And Luna still has all of her Fathers’ old printing supplies – I’m sure she would let me use them. At least temporarily. I could publish myself.”

Draco is watching her with an odd expression.

“Couldn’t I?” she asks him suddenly extremely uncertain.

“You could,” he says with a small smile.

***

The next person she wrote up was Luna because it was easy, convenient, and she knew her friend wouldn’t mind her using her for practice with her interviewing skills.

And it was through Luna that she would be able to get in contact with many other people she was interested in talking to. Not the major players in the War – oh no. Honestly, they held little fascination for her.

She was talking about Aberforth Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, Percy Weasley, Dennis Creevey, Olivander, Gabrielle Delacour.

And there were many interview subjects that she could easily access herself – Andromeda Tonks, Theodore Nott, Narcissa Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Susan Bones (a friend of her sisters’ now), Draco….

It became a study in multiple sources for her. Everyone had their own story, their own take on things that was influenced by the life that they had lived, their very own unique perspective on the events that were unfolding for everyone. And all too often those stories were never heard. History was written by (or maybe more accurately, about) the victors after all. Not the quite ones, not the people in the background… on either side. The ones that were able to blend, to survive – that held their breath and just quietly hoped (with carefully held down panic slowly mounting in their chests) that the water didn’t get too high before they could grow gills.

She decided to call it “Afterwards: The Lives Led by Individuals Before, During and After the War.” On the back was a form you could fill out to have it sent to your house – for a small fee.

It was distributed all around town. Small stacks in shops, salons, bars, boutiques, on sellers carts.

And Astoria truly hadn’t had much hope for it. She wanted it to succeed (and even that sort of want is hesitant) but optimism – well, saying it had never been a strength of hers was rather an understatement.

The box she had had set aside for specifically the purpose of receiving any responses she may get at the Owlery was absolutely full of requests. Requests and money.

Astoria stood blinking at it stupidly.

Perhaps it was because this premier teaser issue had been a double feature: Luna and Daphne – two people whose families were seen as being on either side during the War – so she had snagged both demographics. Perhaps it was the titillation of the fact that she didn’t give her name, that she had signed at the end with the childhood nickname only her sister had ever called her – _“A Story”_. Perhaps people were hungry for a recourse other than the Daily Prophet (which had taken a major hit in public trust); somewhere they could learn about people from the people themselves. Perhaps people were just honestly just curious about the premise.

Astoria truly didn’t know the why, but she did know that this success allowed her to take the next step.

She packed up all the requests and money into her bag and Owled her sister while she was there - it was a fairly new legal procedure but Daphne would know people in the Ministry who could get her the proper paperwork.

***

Months later, Astoria held her final draft for Draco’s issue in her right hand. She had taken her time on it – much more than any other that she had done previously. He had been patient but very curious (of the process and frankly of her) during the interview. And she had been very careful, very particular – letting the words guide her as she always did but doubling back and checking for bias of _any_ kind in every line. Like every issue she sent out she wanted this to be _his_ story not hers and that is hard - so hard - when his tale is so close, so intertwined, with hers in ways even her sisters’ wasn’t. ( _For this is a classical pureblood “once upon a time”; a story of surrender to heavy-handed heritage. Where there was never any happy ending, only a trailing off. Only a shaky, uncertain, yearning that gave way to an eventual deadening inside_ ) And it was only with his approval that she would print it next month.

In her left hand she holds (what she desperately is allowing herself to hope – for all of their sakes is) the key to break the spell, break the cycle. Perhaps not a “happily ever after” but maybe something close, something that at least re-opens the opportunity for that someday. Or is possibly, the gift of a type of hope, a newness they have never before known. And, at the most miniscule, it will guarantee that their son will never never go through the same things they did.

In her left hand were divorce papers.

The walk up the staircase seems too long and she is intensely alert for the impossible stretching of time. He was already in the bedroom when she enters.

“Draco,” she says quietly and his eyes go to the papers in her hands before meeting hers, sharp and direct, “we have to talk.”

She takes a deep breath and closes the door behind her hearing it click heavily in the silence.


End file.
